Description: When you’re living like an animal and moneys tight, you have to get creative to survive. Considering we were broke and what little money we had went to the procurement of canned retardants, the line between shopping and stealing was dotted at best.

When you’re living like an animal and moneys tight, you have to get creative to survive. Considering we were broke and what little money we had went to the procurement of canned retardants, the line between shopping and stealing was dotted at best. Going to parties became less about partying and more about ransacking. It was like trick-or-treat and we were all dressed as assholes.

Sitting around drinking, heading into the top of the 7th strait hour of playing darts, someone mentioned some twats were having a party. Once the twats were identified by street name and whose penis they had sucked, the response was a resounding, “Them bitches suck.” You see, no one ever knew the names of the mangy fallacious smuts that roamed Wildwood. They were known only by street name or the associated name of our friend whose cock they had sucked.

For example: “Where is the party?”

Answer: “Kate’s house.”

“Where?”

Answer: “The Poplar bitches crib.”

“Who?”

Answer: “The chick who sucked (insert friends name)’s cock”

“Oh all right, why didn’t you say that.”

But I apologize, I digress. Where was I?

Grins spread across our faces like jackals that have cornered a fawn. Gainesville yelled “We shall mate with the wenches and slay thy fridges bare.” Immediately Audio slave was put on and cranked to wall shaking decibels. “Crank it,” we yelled. “God tune,” was the response. We ran through the house in a shirtless mosh-pit of destruction. Walls were punched, chairs smashed, people tackled through doors. In a moment of clarity someone had managed to hide the bowling balls under the table; an intelligently responsible yet pussy move. Hundreds of empty beers lay in heaps like piles of raked leaves. It was an offering to the gods. The pre-hunt ritual had begun.

A quick round of beer showers, a hosing of Axe, and we were ready to hit the streets. We were dressed in the finest our floors had to offer. Whatever was least wrinkled was what went on. We looked like thieves, and we were.

Stumbling through the streets pissing on all manner of bush and car door handle, we made our way to parties. A pounding on the door was met by the disgruntled face of a girl who was expecting two guests and was now staring at a pack of wolves 14 deep. We made ourselves at home, taking full advantage of the niceties that women tend to maintain even in the most whorish of houses. The way we saw it, a coffee table looked a lot like an ottoman, and coaster was just another word for ashtray. Our methods were different but the result was always the same. Our bags came to the party filled with beer and left stuffed with food, liquor, and an Isle 5 worth of toiletries. Sure there was other stuff, sometimes it was payback, but we each had our favorites. I focused on candles, LG was a T-shirt man, The Politician did electronics, and the rest preferred posters and 6 foot inflatable bottles of Corona. In a party full of drunks it’s easy to “Accidentally” punch out a light or lean on a switch. Our work was unspoken. Everyone knew what to do when the lights went out. Keep your eye on the ball, or in this case, the blackberry. That particular technique was known as the flash-bang. Not to be confused with the sexual act of the same name and similar style. We were what shark week would call opportunistic hunters.

But sometimes the kill was a slow bleed that took all night. One second there’s an iPod the next an empty Beast Ice. We were the King Midis of Iced beer, the Grinch of gang banging fridges. Other times a well timed song and a round of shots was all we needed to clean out a fridge. Although we were all masters in the fine art of boozing, LG and Gainesville generally kept the twats choking on Cuervo while the rest of us finger fucked their fridge. Taking the light bulb from the fridge was the cherry on top. It was what the French call the piece de la résistance and the porn industry knows as “A Facial.”

We’d come home and empty our bags laughing and drinking over the nights catch. Waffles, ice-cream, shampoo, ramen; our stolen goods looked like the burnt-out –purchases of a stoner. Girl’s houses were great for toiletries. Our hair never smelled so good. Generally you’d find items that you knew the girls had stolen from some guy’s house. Those bitches with their whorish guiles were more dangerous than a wagon of gypsys. Their DNA structure fell somewhere on the scale between Cro Magnon and The Women of The Amazon.

We were true artists, constantly learning, innovating, and changing techniques. Despite what looked like Viking pillaging it was more like im-prov thievery. There was a method to the madness, a drunken one, but a method none the less. Of all our techniques none was more enjoyable, psychologically damaging, and lucrative than the Hit-and-Split.

Conditions had to be just right in order to pull off a true Hit-and-Split. But once every so often, on a fateful starry night, under the gaze of a full moon, the planets align and some snatches parents leave they’re house under the supervision of their daughters Tweatle D-cup and Tweatle Cum. This is how it went. These wealthy, over trusting, self-absorbed, oblivious-to-the-fallacious-nature-of-their-daughters-parents, had a pending engagement. Let’s say it’s a wedding in the Bahamas. Because it’s a weird cousin that no one really knows, only the parents get invited to said engagement. In reality the entire things probably a sham of an excuse for the asshole parents to go cheat on each other in Vegas. This leaves a fully stocked house guarded only by the ass, tits, lips, and walnut sized brains of the daughters. Meaning the only thing between us and a double door stainless steel behemoth, crammed with name brand surplus, was bras and panties. Somewhere around mid-afternoon Cheddar Hands got word of this most epic of situations from Tweetle Dcup. Via text he alerted The Politician and Renaldo who worked together at an Italian joint. From there word was sent to Gainesville and LG who somehow managed to stay employed as a cook and a lifeguard. Me and LeftLeg were half a case deep, jobless at the beach, pretending to be dolphins. We didn’t hear anything until we stumbled in around 4:30, just in time to watch our favorite soap opera, “Passions.” Cheddar Hands was sitting on the couch with a fat-fuck-family-fun-sized-feed-bag of Doritos strapped to his face. Once he came up for air he mustered a “Where you assholes been, looking for jobs?”

Cheddar Hands – “Best part is her sisters down here and they’re staying at their parent’s crib, who are gone.”

Left Leg- “Can we fuck the place up?”

Cheddar Hands – “She said I can only bring one friend for her sister.”

Me – “Fuck that.”

Cheddar Hands – “Exactly”

Over darts and iced beer we discussed who should be the second inside man on the job. However, the ravenous whore that she was, Tweetle Cum had showed interest in several of our penises. Although I was clearly the most handsome, I had little to no patients for morons regardless of the voluptuousness of their asses. We considered Renaldo as a possible candidate, but his tard tolerance was only slightly better than my own. Also his thievery skills would be put to better use elsewhere. What we needed was someone who was completely unconcerned with brains, personality, or morals of any kind. What we needed was a man-whore. We had something better, a Gainesville.

Around 9:30 Cheddar Hands and a halfcocked Gainesville arrived at Cum-ette castle and began marinating the sisters in Cuervo and Vladdi. We figured a half hour would be plenty of time to ensure the girls panties had hit the floor. These chicks were ravenous cock whores. Plus, Cuervo removes clothes like a power-washer removes paint, they didn’t stand a chance. Having gone outside for a cigarette around 9:55 Gainesville strategically left the door unlocked in preparation for our arrival. At this point, me, Leftleg, Renaldo, and LG were crouching on the deck waiting to the right of the sliding glass doors. There was really no reason for the crouching but it seemed like some cool SWAT team shit to do. Once Tallman and Gainesville were both in the bedrooms laying down suppression fire, we made our move. The house was swank and other than the evidence of the Cuervo clubbing given to the girls, spotlessly clean. That was all about to change.

Before raping the fridge for every last morsel of food we decided to enjoy our surroundings with a bucket of complimentary nuts and some Heinekens, also complimentary. Pistachio shells fired off like wasted rounds from an M16 as we blasted shots of Tequila into the back of our skulls. They say you should never food shop on an empty stomach, the same applies to a “Hit and Split” and sobriety. When stealing, or karma balancing as we liked to call it, a certain level of impaired judgment is necessary. That level being, completely impaired. And nothing unsteadies the hand and completely impairs better than the golden poison of the agave plant. With an empty bottle of booze and a house sufficiently riddled with trash we decided it was time to go to work.

Leftleg hit the cabinets, LG the bathroom, and me and Renaldo B-lined for the stainless steal vault. Once the others finished they’d meet up with me and Renaldo at rally point Subzero. As we opened the fridge doors that song from Willy Wonka began to play. “Come with me, and you’ll be, in a world of pure incarceration.” We stood, the glow of the fridge on our faces, raging hard-ons in our pants, salivating like rabid dogs. Once I saw the 2lb pack of pork-roll I became weak in the knees. Renaldo went into what I can only describe as breakfast meat convulsions. Our minds could think of only one thing, “Breakfast Sambo’s”. Nothing fuels the sleepless belligerent life of a beach bum drunkard like “pork-roll, egg, and cheese sandwiches.” The copious amounts of cuervo surging through our veins gave us super subhuman capabilities. The calm of a wino, the rage of a rummy, and the reasoning of a crack head all for under 20 bucks. Did we really need a two gallon bucket of hot chocolate mix in mid-July? Who’s to say? Among our plunder were Eggo’s, Snack-Packs, Klondike bars, bricks of cheese, pepperoni, and a dozen or so condiments, to name a few. I was having visions of Templeton from charlottes web when Leftleg and LG showed up. We were like pigs fighting to suckle at the teat of mother fridge. From a distance it looked like 4 drunken sailors on leave in Bangkok tag teaming Rosy from the Jetsons.

While cramming cream cheese and deli pickles into the last free space of our pants, we began hearing rustlings from one of the bedrooms. We turned to look and Gainesville was standing in the doorway scratching his Chewbacca chest hair in nothing but a pair of Sponge Bob boxers. He made it about 20 inches before his feet met hundreds of shards of pistachio shells. In Monty Python dialect he screamed “JESUS CHRIST”. This put an end to the split part of the “Hit and SPLIT.” Or so we thought. Tweetle Cum, still bleary eyed from the plowing she had received, came stumbling out of the darkness. Surely this was the end. We were caught pickle-handed. Officers would be arriving any second to frisk us down to our last Milano. We stood around the fridge, doors ajar, frozen with anticipation. What now, what now?, we thought. Gainesville, who wasn’t big on thinking, decided to act. Using his index fingers as horns, Gainesville bent over and charged Tweetle Cum like a bull. A direct goring to her stomach sent them both tumbling into the darkness. This was followed shortly by the steady rhythm of a squeaking box spring. My god, the son of a bitch did it, we thought. It was brilliant. The whole thing could be played off as some sort of freaky rough sex. Then it dawned on us that it may have actually been part of some sort of freaky rough sex. Either way, our asses and our plunder were safe. It was time to go home. The fridge was empty, our bags and the girls holes were filled. All was right with the world. Any loose ends would be tied up nicely by the empty bottle of tequila. You could pretty much explain anything with an empty bottle of tequila. All manner of injury, property damage, and missing items would be covered under the Cuervo Gold Insurance Policy. With a slogan like, “If you fucked up while fucked up, we’ll explain it,” you can’t go wrong. We walked home that night pounding beers with string cheese chasers. In true Robinhood fashion we had robbed the rich and given to the drunk.

We lived like thieves and ate like kings. Anyone who tried to raid our fridge, generally found items that looked strangely familiar to those they once called their own. It was the circle of life in its truest form. After making an example of a few houses people realized it was a big mistake stealing anything from us. The repercussions for stealing anything, especially if it contained alcohol, were tenfold. Our vengeance was swift and devastating. We were the eighth plague.